


Bacio (the Roll Over, Catullus mix)

by curiouslyfic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Futurefic, Kissing, M/M, Rimming, anti-fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-22
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:13:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiouslyfic/pseuds/curiouslyfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Whoever desires constant success must change his conduct with the times." ~ Niccolò Machiavelli</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bacio (the Roll Over, Catullus mix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinetikatrue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinetikatrue/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Basia](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/3008) by kinetikatrue. 



> Love, thanks, and gratitude to my cheerleader betas, without whom this fic could not exist. kinetikatrue, you said: _There's[Catullus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catullus), [A.E. Housman](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A.E._Housman)/Moses Jackson from [Tom Stoppard](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Stoppard)'s "[The Invention of Love](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Invention_of_Love)" and plenty of JKR's boys. What more could you want?_ To which I said immediately: [_Machiavelli_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Machiavelli). Thanks for letting me play in your sandbox.

Potter is everywhere during the trials, just making a big display of himself, whinging and weeping all over the place like that’s a thing anyone needs to see. He is courted and petted and held in esteem, the conquering hero turned civilian-prince, and Draco’s been tired of it since Hogwarts. The fallout from the war doesn’t change a thing. Potter has always been recklessly self-serving in the most oblivious ways and frankly, that’s what’s always arsed Draco off most, that Potter doesn’t even know what he’s doing.

It can’t end soon enough, to Draco’s mind, and he's trapped in political and social limbo until it does.

Draco can’t say he understands why Potter fixates like he does, hovers and lurks and lingers in Draco’s life, but that’s not stopping, either, and it’s hardly new. Potter’s been actively stalking him since sixth year at least, probably longer, and Draco’s had to learn to work around it to accomplish his own ends.

There are only so many options open to a deposed prince.

::

By rights, according to the gossips filling the streets, Draco Malfoy ought to be locked up in Azkaban with all the rest of the miscreants who bear the Mark. Draco finds himself mentally prepared to be a prisoner of war, politically undesirable and a potential threat to the new order. Instead, he finds himself the unanticipated beneficiary of bleeding hearts on the Wizengamot, who decide there’s some merit to giving him “a second chance” to "prove" himself.

Draco feels this an appropriate end to his school years, something of an extended practical exam in all the things he’s learned that weren't on the curriculum.

He credits first year with the understanding that Gryffindors always win, that the world’s stacked against him and always will be, to some extent; he credits second year with the understanding that he’s not the only prospective prince around.

Credits fifth year with the forbearance to tolerate the total wreckage of everything he holds dear, and credits sixth year with the ability to keep it off his face.

He can’t credit seventh year with anything but pain. Pain and loss and misery, really, but it’s all the same. He is no longer the DiMedici, he’s Machiavelli.

It takes some time to adjust.

Then there’s Potter, with his relentless stares, his hot eyes and his spit-slicked lips, watching every move Draco makes. Draco wants to call it stalking, because Potter’s always been too interested in what Draco does, only it becomes evident that it’s rather Potter’s idea of seduction.

Draco can work with that.

::

It’s not that he loves Potter, not that he ever will. It’s that the best tributes a humbled prince can make are those things his new liege holds most dear.

In Potter’s case, it apparently involves Draco’s arse.

Well, and the theatre, of all things, but Draco’s less annoyed by that. At least sitting in the dark for a few hours, he can’t be expected to do anything more than hold Potter’s hand. Next to the prospect of touching Potter, letting Potter touch _him_ , hand-holding and melodrama are such small things.

::

Draco’s never been much for the theatre, despite all he’s heard he’s a drama queen, but he goes because Potter asks. Reads up on it beforehand so he won’t be surprised, because knowledge is power and always has been.

Events have conspired to reduce the authority Draco considers his birthright, perhaps, but he is not without skills or strategy; if Draco means to reacquire his own place in the world, he requires Potter’s trust. If that requires Draco’s presence at the theatre, a proper show of being _engaged_ , so be it.

Potter flips a coin repeatedly while they’re waiting to go in, makes a show of disinterest Draco sees right through, all furtive glances in Draco’s direction and a half-quirked smile Potter tries to bite back by gnawing his lip. It’s a test, the flipping, though likely an unconscious one.

No, _oblivious_.

Draco sees through that, as well. When Potter asks him to guess, a small wager to pass the time before the ushers let them in, Draco thinks it’s this or small talk, and considers himself spared. Potter’s never been a conversationalist, really.

Draco says _heads_ , and _heads_ again, just keeps guessing as the charmed coin turns, and the victory of it isn’t in the fact that he’s right—of course he is, it’s _magic_ —it’s in the way Potter lets his smile show, like they’re sharing something.

Like it's not the obvious Stoppard reference.

By the time they take their seats properly, Draco knows he has Potter snared, just precisely where Draco wants him.

His parents would be proud. So would Machiavelli.

::

The play itself is a brief eternity of self-hating queer engaged in the introspection of romantic melancholia, which means Draco spends a fair bit of it trying not to roll his eyes, but it’s so much easier to tolerate when he sees it as Potter must, a treatise on the possible and a retrospective on all the things a man lets slip away.

Draco mines it for references, things he can use, and he tries not to think too long about the obvious ways to keep Potter happy, the way he’ll need to _pine_ ; to be the frustrated suitor too locked down in himself to properly woo his oblivious Jackson without ever understanding the base reality that Jackson’s just not that into him. The sensible response would be to find someone who is, but that’s a bit too Oscar Wilde for A.E. Housman and that’s not what catches Potter’s eye in Stoppard’s play, so Draco doesn’t mention it.

Potter, he thinks, prefers that idea of love, elusive and untouchable. Or maybe that’s just what he expects of Draco, skittish caution and some romanticised better nature for Potter to draw out now that Draco’s been "humbled".

Afterwards, there’s “coffee” at a cafe nearby, Potter turning awkward again until they have their seats and Draco can work the conversation. Potter flips his coin again, absent and uncertain, until Draco leans across the table and closes his hand over Potter’s hot fist.

Potter blinks at him. Draco coaxes a tentative smile with one of his own, aware Potter’s tensing at his touch. Draco has to remind himself that’s a good thing.

In so many ways, Potter is too easy.

And when Draco’s safe at home, comfortably himself for the first time all evening, what he wants most is a hot shower and a tumbler of Firewhisky to clear Potter’s kiss from his mouth.

He falls asleep reading, the well-thumbed text laid on his lap, open to advice for princely success via fortune and foreign arms, power gained by someone else’s virtue.

He has pleasant dreams indeed.

::

Potter kisses sloppily, tugs restlessly at Draco’s hair and knocks their teeth together when Draco tries to move to fit their mouths at an angle that suits him. Draco anticipates tongue soon, Potter gasping out his name and moving in against him, rubbing up on Draco’s robes.

It’s a fine kiss, certainly not the worst Draco’s ever had, and it’s _tolerable_ , really, Draco can absolutely do this for as long as it takes. He can’t imagine he’ll require Potter’s attention—protection, really, though Draco doesn’t like that word—for much more than a few years. Draco’s not without connections and he’s certainly not without skills; once he’s accrued enough social capital, he’ll be fine to set out on his own, start reclaiming his heritage.

Sometimes, when Potter’s all over him and breathing heavily, flushed and eager and hard, Draco has to focus on the potential gains in his future to avoid embarrassing the home side with a lacklustre performance.

 _Sometimes_ , Draco has to skip off to the bathroom, make use of a quick something from the spellbook his mother pressed into his hands when he explained how things would have to be for now, that he'd have to be with Potter for Merlin-knows-how-long and that he'll have to put on a good show of it. Draco tries very hard not to wonder why she had these particular spells so close at hand.

He tries even harder not to think the word “whore”.

::

Draco feels bad about it every now and again, usually when he’s got Potter plastered over him all soft and warm with sleep, hair matted and mangled baring his forehead. Draco might be the last person in Wizarding England who doesn’t believe Harry Potter deserves whatever he wants now, but sometimes, just sometimes, it’s hard not to see _Scarhead_ , who’d saved his life in the Room of Hidden Things and kept Mother out of Azkaban after the war. Scarhead, who’d been too distracted to be a proper rival most years, who’d had Father arrested for some incident at the Ministry Draco never truly understood, who’d beaten Draco in Quidditch and House points and _everything_ , who’d assaulted him on the pitch and nearly got him killed time and again, who’d left everyone in Hogwarts to rot waiting that last year.

Potter, who’s been kind and sweet and patient about actually having Draco’s arse because he thinks Draco’s _shy_ , who’s trying to prove himself quick and bright and clever enough to be the man Draco deserves. Who’s faced down the gossips and the haters since their first date, who’s made it clear a hundred ways over time and again that he thinks the world of Draco Malfoy, that there’s nothing anyone can say or do to change his mind.

So very much of Draco’s life has been _survival_ and Potter’s trying to make it _good_ , trying to make Draco the other half of himself, the missing piece in Potter’s ideal family. Sometimes, Draco thinks Potter’s a Shakespeare sonnet off pining for a picket fence and a Crup.

Fine enough, he supposes, but that’s no life for a prince.

So sometimes, in the quiet hours when they’re alone and Potter’s asleep, Draco thinks about how good and gentle and compassionate Potter is, all those qualities princes must _project_ for their subjects but can’t ever truly _be_.

Draco cards his fingers through Potter’s mangled hair carefully and explains, letting the words pour forth in Latin, Italian, all the rules of princely living that stand between them and always will.

He’s going through his favourite bit, _”A prince should therefore have no other aim or thought, nor take up any other thing for his study but war and its organisation and discipline, for that is the only art that is necessary to one who commands,”_ words softened in their original Italian, when he notices the gleam of Potter’s eyes. It’s unsettling how familiar he is with Potter’s stare now, how comfortably uncomfortable it is.

Potter smiles at him, sweet and fond, and says, "Oh, that’s lovely, what is that?"

Draco says easily, with practised carelessness, ” _Never do an enemy a small harm_ ” in fluid Italian, and Potter must take that for a title because he asks Draco to keep going with a shy gnaw of his lip.

So Draco does, just lets Potter lie there with his ear over Draco’s heart, one hand curled absently on Draco’s bare chest, and lets the words spill out again.

 _”The question arises whether it is better to be loved more than feared, or feared more than loved. The reply is that one ought to be both feared and loved, but as it is difficult for the two to go hand-in-hand, it is far better to be feared than loved if you cannot be both.”_

The last thing he hears Potter murmur before Potter drifts back to sleep is, "You’re going to love e.e.cummings."

::

Draco is tolerant of Potter’s little quirks, his need for contact and his newfound love of words, but Draco cannot allow himself to forget the endgame. Potter is tolerable now because he’s useful, nothing else, and Draco can’t let himself think about how frustrating it might be otherwise to discover that he never develops warmer feelings for Potter at all.

Potter will survive whenever Draco leaves, despite all the pretty words Potter steals from better minds to attempt to convince Draco otherwise, and because Potter’s still trying six months in, Draco is newly irritated by the need to have an amiable split.

Draco’s patience can only really hold out so long and it’s tiring, keeping Potter this close, constantly on guard to make sure his own responses show Potter what he wants to see.

Being with Potter is so much harder than Draco thinks it ought to be. Potter just never lets up. Gets nervous and flustered sometimes, tongue-tied by emotions he’s evidently compelled to share, and even before Draco moves in officially, it’s at best repetitive and banal to keep to Potter’s company for long.

Worse still to be near Potter’s friends, because not only is Draco required to play addle-pated lover for the crowd, but there’s the utter indignity of watching Potter attempt to lay down the law when stray members of the Weasley Collective put Draco down.

Not to mention the inevitability that Weasley visits mean Potter needs to be coddled when they’re gone, held and kissed and petted, promised things Draco’s sure no reasonable person needs to hear. Everybody leaves, nothing is certain, this cannot possibly be love.

Sometimes, when it’s too much to find new ways to spin the same pretty lies, Draco resorts to quoting the Slytherin bible instead, Machiavelli mouthed soothingly into Potter’s wretched hair.

Even if Draco swung this way, he couldn’t ever really be with someone like this.

For obvious reasons, he keeps that to himself.

::

The spell’s a godsend. Draco finds it on the eve of Potter’s birthday, which means there’s a chance he’ll have an actual reason to smile when they celebrate alone. Not that he can show his real smile, not without risking Potter catching on, but the prospect of a night without the messy work of getting Potter off is the most cheering thought Draco’s had in weeks.

It helps, of course, that he knows what Potter considers _romance_ , in that it helps him set the stage. Potter’s inner theatre lover should appreciate that.

Potter lies back for him, fowl before the fox, and he’s smiling when he sets aside his wand, biting at his lip nervously when Draco leans in. No actual touching tonight, thank fuck, but Draco does need to set the spell, monitor the results to know whether there’s any tweaking required. He doesn’t expect there will be, not if it’s from Mother’s spellbook, but there’s rather a lot at risk.

He can’t afford to _appear_ relieved to maintain space between them tonight.

Draco lays the first spell on Potter’s forehead, just near the scar; quite possibly the only thing that makes Potter worth his time, the reason Draco’s here at all. He’s certain Potter thinks it’s sweet, because he knows all Potter’s responses by now, the precise tributes he’ll need to make, and the way Potter shifts on the bed, tries to push up slightly into it, has Draco moving quickly to advance his plan.

Left to his own devices, Potter will absolutely go for contact, no matter how well the spell works. It’s just sad, how much Potter needs to touch him, to be touched in return.

There’s no bad to _Basio_ as far as Draco can tell, no complicated wand work or potential disaster if he misspeaks. No reason at all he can’t lay phantom kisses all over Potter’s skin, magical mouths swarming everywhere Draco directs.

So he does. Sweeps them over Potter’s face and neck, over Potter’s eyelids to avoid that wet-eyed watch, along Potter’s jaw line while Draco flicks the buttons open on Potter’s shirt, sets _Basio_ sweeping over Potter’s chest. Potter shifts up again, restless as always in pleasure, and he makes these soft, small sounds Draco’s sure he’s meant to find endearing.

From almost anyone else, he would.

 _Shhh_ , he means when he says _Basio_ ; _shhh_ and _quiet_ and _enough_. Potter doesn’t hear it, of course, Potter’s probably still figuring out it’s a spell, but Draco knows.

He likes to think anyone who knows him properly would know as well, but Potter’s always been so good at making the world what he wants, seeing things his own narrow way.

Draco is perhaps a bit overzealous getting Potter’s trousers and pants off, relative to normal, but in his defence, it’s the first time baring Potter’s cock won’t mean getting Potter’s smell all over his hands, letting Potter push into his mouth or his fist or his arse, lying there later in Potter’s mess like that’s a thing he wants.

To cover his own enthusiasm, he sets a string of _Basio_ s, loosing a cloud of them to keep Potter occupied while Draco steals a moment to assess his campaign.

It’s good to know the topography, he thinks; wars are best waged on familiar ground against a known opponent.

Because Draco is feeling benevolent—near giddy, in fact—he takes the time to tease, gets Potter well and truly riled, staring up at him all spread out and naked, none of it nearly as off-putting as the sweet-tea look of Potter’s eyes, clear and dark and hot, absolutely tooth-rotting if Draco makes himself stare back too long.

Much easier to watch the bridge of Potter’s nose, let his own mouth curve fondly at the flush crawling over Potter’s cheeks.

Draco expects it to be strange when he moves _Basio_ back up Potter’s legs, over his inner thighs and to the sensitive skin behind Potter’s balls, because Draco’s all-too-familiar with the whole area between Potter’s legs. He knows how it feels-smells-tastes to push his tongue against Potter’s arsehole, how easily the muscle gives for him and how Potter sounds, hot and rough and needier than normal. Draco’s spent far too much of his time licking Potter’s cock, mouthing over his balls carefully, letting them roll between his lips, reminding himself that for as much as Potter likes a hint of teeth when Draco takes Potter’s cock down his throat, actual biting is off the table.

Draco also knows how tempting it is, how easily he could tweak his spellcraft, leave the sting-hum of _Lambo-Erado-Basio_ — _lick-scratch-kiss_ —just there. Almost as tempting as casting _Petrificus Totalus_ , making off with Potter’s wand, leaving him there in a big, bare display until the blessed truth of things finally sinks in.

As always, that’s a particularly hard image to shake. Distracting beyond words, really, so it’s as well he’s casting _Basio_ without a thought now, because he doesn’t quite manage to pull himself out of it until he scents Potter’s come spurting out, splattering over Potter’s belly. He thinks maybe Potter’s noticed his inattention—that seems like Draco’s luck—so Draco lifts Potter’s hands up, brushes his mouth over Potter’s knuckles in what he hopes Potter takes as a courtly fashion.

Considering Draco’s just sucked him off with _magic_ , Potter’s atrociously alert afterwards. And here Draco’s been hoping for a few minutes more of blissful quiet.

Potter sort of jerks at him, tugs Draco down with that insipid smile he gets, and it says all that needs saying about why it wouldn’t ever _actually_ work between them that Potter goes right to cuddling without even checking if Draco needs to get off, too. He doesn’t, of course, because he’s had no reason to think about anything that would get him _that_ hard, but the characteristic selfishness of not even trying is one more strike against Potter to Draco’s mind.

Merlin knows Draco’s reached the stage of annoyance where he’s quite sure he could get off to picturing Potter’s broken-hearted face. If that turns into a kink later, Draco’s going to be right pissed off.

Potter cradles him, which is more manhandling and clutching than Draco would tolerate under any other circumstances, and Draco has to force himself to relax.

Potter doesn’t notice a thing. Draco’s not surprised at all.

Then Potter’s quoting at him—Latin, Catullus 5—which is all pretty words about forbidden lovers ignoring cruel words, the vital necessity of _kissing_ and such, and Draco can’t help but think _Yes, congratulations, Potter, you’ve figured out the spell_.

He has the terrible feeling that whenever this ends, he’ll have long months relearning how to speak his mind.

When Potter finishes, he’s got that bright-eyed look again, soft and happy and charmed. Draco feels so much older than he is, bone-weary and impatient to get on with things. Because he can’t act on any of it, not _yet_ , he does his best to work up the enthusiasm he feels is required.

“I know we decided it didn’t matter if our names didn’t scan…” Potter starts, pins-and-needles overjoyed.

“Obviously.” Draco won’t even touch Potter’s need to measure them like that, pit their names together in parts, as though there’s any comparing a reckless Potter upstart with a well-trained Malfoy prince.

“But we saw that play months—almost a year ago.” Potter falters, bashful out of _nowhere_. So sod it, back to coddling again. “I never expected…”

“That anything would come of it?” Draco toys with arching a brow, restrains himself to what he hopes is a relentlessly encouraging look.

Potter flashes him a grateful smile. “Yes.”

Clearly, Potter’s never learned enough Latin to have understood all those times Draco’s explained about the perils of yes-men around a prince, the need to stand on guard constantly against the dangers of ego-strokes. It’s much, much easier to smile then, to mean it when he does. “Well, that’s why you keep me around, isn’t it?” he asks airily. “To confound your expectations with my outrageous and unprecedented behaviour.”

Potter lights up more, which Draco’s sure shouldn’t be possible, only evidently it is. It makes him look like a schoolboy Draco never saw, the one he might have known had they grown up differently.

“What — not the snappy conversation and brilliant sex?” Potter challenges, wicked like Draco thinks they might have been, more likeable for it than he ordinarily is. Draco doesn’t see this side of Potter much, but the rare glimpses make his waiting tolerable, if not quite pleasant.

So Draco lets loose a wicked smile of his own, digs up a theatrical reference he’s sure will appeal. He knows now with certainty what Potter wants to hear. “Happy birthday, Harry. I’m glad it’s you I’ve got, rather than that silly Jackson fellow. He’s no appreciation for subtleties.”

And yes, Draco does have to combat inappropriate laughter before he can get out that last, because hasn’t the past year been proof and then some that Potter’s worse?

Still, Potter doesn’t catch it, Potter just sort of settles into the conversation, comfortable as ever like he really does think they’re bonding here. “I rather think that if Housman couldn’t get him the way he wanted him, you really wouldn’t have a chance.” Potter’s mouth quirks impishly. Draco resolutely does not roll his eyes. “I mean, _he_ was practically a girl, even if he was bloody brilliant when it came to the Most Ancient and Revered Languages.” Potter goes full-blown grin. “'Sides, he was a Muggle — hardly a fit partner for a Malfoy, particularly not my Malfoy.”

Then Potter’s kissing him, deep and hot and slick, like he has the slightest clue what that means.

::

 _“Everyone realises how praiseworthy it is for a prince to honour his word and to be straightforward rather than crafty in his dealings; none the less contemporary experience shows that princes who have achieved great things have been those who have given their word lightly, who have known how to trick men with their cunning, and who, in the end, have overcome those abiding by honest principles.” ~ Niccolò Machiavelli_


End file.
